


A Night In Three Parts

by EVVS



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, Mind Control, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EVVS/pseuds/EVVS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You aren’t Bucky.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

“Don’t get blood on anything.”

“I’m bandaged up just fine, thank you.”

That doesn’t stop Bucky from checking over his shoulder to make sure Clint isn’t bleeding on anything. Because he got cut like three or four times and the asshole is currently covered in stupid band-aids. Like not even bandages even though a few of his injuries are more than just a scrape. Just stupid band-aids. They hardly cover up anything. “If you bleed on somethin’, I’m gonna be mad at you.”

He laughs. “You’re just lucky you heal fast, asshole.”

It’s true. He had two bullet holes in him a few hours ago, one a through-and-through in his arm, the non-metal one, which hurt like a bitch; another round that had sliced into his leg that Clint had been ever so polite as to carefully remove, apologizing every two seconds when Bucky winced in pain. And since then, both injuries have healed up fairly well, most of the damage healed up, but he’s got them bandaged up thoroughly, knowing they’ll be nothing more than fleshy white scars in a few more hours.

Temptation is too much and he checks over his shoulder to see Clint pulling his shirt over his head. Yep, he’s got band-aids all up and down one cut along the side of his ribcage; they look like stitches except with band-aids because Clint can’t dodge a knife worth a shit and also can’t patch up the resulting wound. An absolute moron. Who just so happens to have a nice ass, Bucky duly notes for probably the thousandth time as he watches his husband pull off his jeans.

Yeah, this has yet to get old.

“Hey, get undressed,” comments Clint, which is when Bucky notices that he’s standing in front of the mirror and tossing his clothes where he normally does, which is basically right next to where actual laundry basket is. For a man with perfect aim, he’s lazy as hell. “And stop checking me out.” He flashes a smile into the mirror, clearly aware that Bucky can see him and watching Bucky right back. “I’m married.”

Bucky snorts a laugh before looking away, pretending like he got caught. “Whoever it is must be so lucky to be married to you. You’re such a pain in the ass.” And he pulls off his shirt, careful so that it doesn’t get caught on his metal arm. That’s happened before and he got stuck to the point that Clint had to cut him out of his own shirt. Pathetic.

“I married a great guy,” says the archer. And he feels Clint’s arms slip around his waist. His chin is on his shoulder. Bucky watches him with his peripherals. “He’s also an asshole. Like me.”

He pauses, turning his head slightly so that he can kiss Clint’s stubbly cheek. Which doesn’t have a band-aid on it, luckily. He’s very glad Clint’s face didn’t get banged up much today. “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Bucky leans back into his husband and loves how Clint holds him. “What’s the guy’s name?”

And when he sees that Clint’s got that kind of smirk on, he knows the answer’s gonna be terrible.

“Captain America.”

“Nope, Barton, that’s too far,” he says and holds his hands up as if in surrender, and that causes Clint to back off, which is fair enough. Bucky’s smiling, but he’s not fucking around. “You have not only crossed a line, but you have crossed it with one huge ass jump.”

He backs away, smirking, not a trace of actual apology on his face despite the fact that he says, “I’m sorry, it was just easy.” He laughs and watches as Bucky drops his pants before heading to the bed, shaking his head. “I mean, I’m married to a sergeant.” And while Bucky’s crawling under the covers, Clint is crossing the room. “That’s pretty close.”

“Even you know the ranking system. Not even remotely close.” Bucky smiles as he sees Clint standing at the side of the bed, biting back a smirk.

Clint pauses for all of half a second before smirking and saying, “I know.” And then he just leans forward like he’s about to swan-dive into a pool but instead just kind of bellyflops onto both the bed and Bucky, who lets out a loud groan that’s somehow mixed with a laugh.

And now Clint is just laying across him, his legs half hanging off the edge of the bed. Bucky just knows Clint weighs a ton and he landed pretty damn hard. “You know Steve and I dated forever ago,” huffs Bucky, trying to roll Clint off of him, maybe onto the floor, maybe onto the bed, he doesn’t care which way his husband falls; turns out that Clint is clutching the sheets, so Barnes can’t get him off unless he just throws off the entirety of the blankets, which definitely won’t happen. “Wouldn’t even think about it now.”

“I was kidding, Barnes, sheesh.” And that’s when Clint basically comes back to life, crawling his way across Bucky, who groans at appropriate times when he gets kneed or takes a foot to the groin, and to his own side of their bed. “But that’d be funny. Me dating Rogers. I like the guy, but he’s a little much.”

Scoffing, Bucky asks, “If you think he’s a little much, then what the fuck am I?”

And, after staring up at the ceiling for a heartbeat, he turns to look at his husband, very serious. “So if Steve is an overeager golden retriever, you’re a pitbull.” Clint slides a little closer to Bucky. “Sturdy. Adaptable. Strong. Nasty reputation, though.” He smirks, while Bucky rolls his eyes. “And you’re lovable. That’s what’s really important.”

“And what’re you?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

There’s about a half-second of contemplation before Clint continues, still entirely serious, “Probably like a really lazy mastiff.”

“How come you get to be bigger than me and Stevie?” Bucky rolls over so that he’s facing Clint now, head propped up by his hand.

Meanwhile, Clint is laying on his back, hands folded at his stomach. Still, he manages to shrug ever so slightly before going, “I said lazy. I’m a powerhouse, I just don’t use it. Obviously.” Smirking. Smug little ass.

“Your ego’s almost as big as your mouth,” Bucky says as he leans over to kiss his stupidly big mouth— Clint is not slow to respond. It takes less than a minute for Clint to find his way closer and for his hand to start to drift, and the archer’s lazy voice just drawls in that Midwestern accent, “Neither are as big as your—”

“Hey, not tonight.” Because Clint’s hurt, they’re both tired, and it just doesn’t make sense.

Clint’s immediate reaction is a sigh, but after a second, he leans up to kiss Bucky again and says, “Alright.” He backs off respectfully and instead resigns to pressing himself up against Bucky’s side after his soldier shifts to lay on his back. Clint’s arm wraps across his husband’s torso; one of his legs hooked over one of Bucky’s. Wrapped up in each other.

Talk about some All-American cuddling. Couple of former military idiots curled around each other. Married. Bucky isn’t sure how he got so lucky, but he’s grateful he’s got Clint in his life and wouldn’t change this moment for anything. Well, he does wish he didn’t have two fresh scars and that Clint wasn’t sliced to bits. But aside from that.

“You’d really be like one of those tiny Jack Russell dogs,” Bucky corrects slowly as some kind of incredibly late afterthought, smirking, knowing he’s about to get a rise out of Barton. “Too much energy, kinda scrappy.”

Groaning, Clint makes a pretty pitiful attempt to basically shove Barnes, but seeing as they’re basically attached, it’s ineffective. “How rude.” And as he readjusts to get settled again, he hisses, and Bucky knows he must’ve fucked up one of his wounds.

“I love you,” reaffirms Bucky, giving his favorite asshole another kiss, this one on the top of his head, “but you’re bloody. The sheets are prob’ly gonna be trashed by morning.” He reaches gingerly to press at the edge of one of the visible band-aids to make sure it’s pushed down and will stay on through the night, and Clint winces. “You shoulda gotten patched up right.”

“ ’m fine.” He literally says this into Bucky’s skin because his face is pressed into his husband’s chest. He tilts his head just slightly so he can see his soldier’s face.

Bucky’s not in the mood to fight him on it; it’s late, they’re both tired, and he’s not going to win that battle anyways. So instead, he uses his free hand, the metal one, to reach up and tap at the wall for the light switch, knowing they need to get some rest. “Sure you are.” And finally he finds it and clicks the light off, which is a prompt for Clint to snuggle in closer. Bucky then shifts, oh so carefully, so that he’s on his side again, and Clint quietly readjusts accordingly, this time not bothering an injury.

Clint’s face is pressed into Bucky’s chest. Legs and arms intertwined. The closeness is a comfort. They both made it home tonight. They’re both in one piece.

There’s always shit to be grateful for on this godforsaken earth.

“I love you,” whispers Bucky again into the darkness before he cranes his neck down to kiss the top of Clint’s head.

There are some words mumbled into his chest where lips graze across his skin in speech, but he can’t make them out. He’s pretty sure he knows what Clint said, though, and that’s enough. Because Clint’s arms just seem to wrap around him tighter, and there’s no better feeling in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really enjoyed writing this three-piece analysis and hopefully other people can enjoy it now. I'll update it next week with the next chapter, which is already done.
> 
> My tumblr is skylarkevanson
> 
> Enjoy


	2. During

Bucky’s barely conscious, but he’s awake because his arm is jabbing into his side at a weird angle and the metal is incredibly uncomfortable, so he rolls over with a grunt and tries to settle in again. It shouldn’t be that hard because he’s incredibly warm and the house is quiet and—

—Clint’s gone.

He props himself up on an elbow to check the bathroom door. Wide open, no light. He’s not in there, Bucky knows, because Clint doesn’t like the way his reflection stares back at him in the darkness, he always puts the light on at night. But the bedroom door is open.

That’s hardly ever a good sign.

As much as he’s pissed that he didn’t notice Clint leave the bed, he’s more concerned because there aren’t any lights on downstairs either, none that he can see, anyways, and Clint doesn’t function well in the dark. He never has, probably never will.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses under his breath, throwing the blankets off and reaching into the nightstand to find his knife. He doesn’t want to use it, he prays to God he doesn’t have to use it, but this has happened too many times before for him to go in blind; he takes the hilt and holds it at the ready before leaving the bedroom, knowing that the house is a minefield when one of them is going through hallucinations or flashbacks.

Careful to move towards the stairs silently, he knows to avoid the creaky floorboards and step lightly everywhere else. At least HYDRA gave him stealth. He appreciates that much. When Bucky hits the top of the stairs, he still can’t see any light. “Shit.” The word is barely more than a breath.

So this has literally turned into a warzone now, Clint would have at least three lights on otherwise, better so he can see, keeps the shadows away, but tonight isn’t one of those nights where he wakes up at just before the asscrack of dawn for some food and a shit.

He takes the steps one at a time, scanning his surroundings to check for any signs of Clint, but there aren’t any. Everything is eerily quiet, and as much as Bucky would usually love that, he’s fucking terrified.

No, Clint is not the most dangerous Avenger. Shit, he’s probably the least dangerous of the team on any given day just because, with the team, he can’t kill. But when he’s not on the team, he’s a SHIELD assassin. While he and Natalia are both assassins, Natalia is brought in more often as a spy, but Clint is brought in when someone needs to _die_. His skill set is meant to be lethal, and Bucky is far too aware of that as he sneaks through the halls of his own home, expecting an arrow to come out of nowhere at any point in time.

And Hawkeye doesn’t miss.

He checks around a corner with barely a peek, and there’s nothing there. Quick scan of the room, no sign of him. Status: clear. He turns the corner, keeping his blade at the ready, eyes watching for any signs of movement. And Bucky feels like he’s functioning in mission mode, which is probably not the mentality he wants to take right now; on missions, he’s there for the kill, but right now, he knows he has to be especially careful not to hurt Clint since he’s already injured. He thinks of his husband, covered in band-aids, and it creates an ache in his chest, an ache for the innocent smile of a man who refuses stitches out of pride.

He’s got to find him first, and that’s really the bigger half of this battle, but as soon as he takes a few steps further into the room, there’s a shadow passing near the backdoor, just sliding through the darkness, and an arrow comes out of nowhere.

Found him.

Using the knife to deflect it, Bucky stays exposed, hoping that Clint’s stealth tactics mean that he’s not going to come at Bucky full-force, which would definitely leave them both with more injuries than they originally went to bed with. But right now, he wishes he put on pants because he feels plenty exposed. “Clint, it’s me,” he calls into the darkness, not seeing anything, and he figures Clint must’ve ducked away. The stillness is so unsettling. “It’s Bucky. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Another arrow slices through the air, and Bucky can’t even see Clint this time, but he hears the bowstring’s twang and manages to turn and put his shoulder in the way like a shield, and the arrow scrapes against the metal and deflects; Bucky growls, trying to watch the shadows. Where the fuck is he? “Clint, whatever’s goin’ on, it’s all in your head. No one’s here. S’just me and you.”

As he rises from the shadows, he looks demonic. Clint’s face is glistening with sweat, and his eyes are darker than Bucky’s ever seen them, pupils totally blown out. The bow is raised, an arrow nocked, and he approaches with an absolute serenity that Bucky thinks is fucking terrifying.

“You aren’t Bucky.”

Alright, so it’s gonna be that kind of night. At least he’s got a relative idea of what’s going on inside his husband’s thick skull. “I’m Bucky, and you’re Clint.” He’s still got his knife, but he’s trying to make sure that Clint can see he’s only wielding it defensively.

“You’re not.” His voice is wavering. He’s not afraid of a lot of things, but Clint’s terrified right now. “You’re Bucky, but you’re not my Bucky.” And Clint’s coming closer, his body still poised and ready to put an arrow in his husband.

He’s not going to say anything, he can’t convince Clint, not with words anyways. So he’ll stay quiet and let Clint work this out the way he knows how, the way that’ll satisfy him, but Bucky won’t put his knife down.

He tilts his head to gesture to Bucky. “Show me your eyes.”

That clarifies all of Bucky’s fears. Because he knows this routine. He knows the motions that’ll talk Clint down. And he goes slow, still keeping his metal arm towards Clint, and Bucky keeps his knife at the ready as he says slowly, “Brown. Not blue.”

But it’s dark, and Clint has to come closer to confirm that. So close that the arrow tip presses into Bucky’s chest, right where his heart is, and he tries not to wince because he knows that it’s cutting into his skin. It stings.

Clint’s still scared out of his mind, it’s obvious because his face is solid and stiff; his jawline is tight, and his eyes are doing that rapid movement thing as he watches Bucky’s eyes very carefully, hunting for the blue he seems convinced should be there. “Loki’s controlling you, and I know it,” he growls, seeming to get angry at the fact that he can’t find what he’s looking for in Bucky’s eyes. “You aren’t my Bucky.”

“I am,” he promises, trying to keep his own face from falling. “I’m your Bucky.” And now is when he needs a show of faith. “I’m gonna drop my knife, Clint. And then I’m gonna show you the wedding ring.” He meets Clint’s eyes. “Is that okay?”

The archer’s gaze flickers to the knife, and something dark flashes across his face. “Do it.”

When Bucky drops the knife, he feels the arrow tip slice into him a little more as Clint flinches at the sound. And then he pulls his hand around and uses his thumb to tap the ring so Clint can see. “It’s me.” He’s careful not to move too much nor too fast. “I promise you it’s me.”

Clint checks his eyes again. He’s checking very carefully, and it feels like an eternity passes for Bucky because there’s blood dribbling down his chest, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling, wet and warm. He knows Clint could release that string any second and kill him, and that agony is heavy in his chest, to know that his own husband could kill him just out of this sick, deeply rooted paranoia. Fear of losing control again. Control of his own body.

The arrow leaves Bucky’s skin. The bow goes down. Clint still looks scared as hell. “Am… I’m not?” He takes a second to try to find the words, like his brain stops for a second. “What color?” he asks slowly, watching Bucky desperately, looking absolutely helpless.

Although he dares not step closer, he looks carefully, showing the same intent that Clint did, knowing it’ll reassure him to take more time even though he knows. “Blue. The right kind of blue.”

“Are you sure?” Clint’s voice wavers, and he sounds like a child.

Bucky takes a step forward, and he goes slow, careful not to alarm Clint because he knows that he could still put an arrow in him at the slightest hint of something going wrong. He puts his right hand on Clint’s shoulder, and Clint doesn’t flinch this time. “I’m your Bucky,” he promises softly, “and you’re my Clint.”

He can only watch as Clint mentally collapses. He drops eye contact and then his face falls and then he stares at his weapons in horror. But he doesn’t look at Bucky again.

Still cautious, still careful, Bucky takes Clint into his arms, knowing that Clint needs time to reorganize his brain, so he could use the physical stability. And as soon as Clint is in his arms, Bucky feels the archer give way, just fall into him, like he can’t hold himself up anymore. “I got you, I got you,” he murmurs, holding his husband upright, brushing one hand through Clint’s choppy hair. “I’m here, Clint, right here, it’s me, I promise.”

Sometimes he feels ridiculous, trying to talk to Clint like this, saying basically the same thing over and over again, reassuring him that it’s Bucky in control here, not Loki, not HYDRA, just Bucky. And reminding Clint that he’s secure in his own body is even harder, sometimes it even takes a mirror and a bigger scuffle because Clint hates mirrors in the dark, he hates the way they play with his face, the way they make him look evil, the way he can’t see what color his eyes are. The blue messes Clint up, he gets angry that his eyes are blue, he gets so angry—

Tonight, he’s not angry. He’s just tired. Lost.

So Bucky gently leads Clint to the couch and settles him down there, finding a blanket and everything, making sure Clint can see him the whole time. And he keeps saying the same things over again. “You’re Clint.” And he’s reassuring Clint. “And I’m Bucky.” And maybe he’s reassuring himself.

As soon as he’s pretty sure Clint’s relatively comfortable, he settles himself right in beside his husband, making sure Clint can see him, making sure Clint has no blind spots. Bucky knows all the little things to try and keep Clint as mentally secure as possible, and so he puts his hand on Clint’s back and rubs up and down the archer’s spine while Clint lays his head in Bucky’s lap. “I’m here.” He leans his head back and sighs. “You’re my Clint, and I’m your Bucky.”


	3. After

His back hurts. His neck hurts. He may or may not have a headache that’s pooled in the back of his skull. Bucky shifts forward to sit upright before stretching out his stiff legs, and he tips his head to both sides to crack his neck, and yeah, he definitely has a little bit of a headache starting up.

So he’s on the couch, fell asleep sitting up, that explains all the aches. It takes him a second to recognize that Clint isn’t next to him, and he isn’t alarmed because he’s covered in the blanket he wrapped Clint in last night and the air smells like coffee. That means Clint is doing better in the daylight.

Bucky isn’t too worried.

He shoves off the blanket and rises, and _shit_ does he hate sleeping upright, always ends up with a headache, always stiff and gross. It’s been this way since HYDRA, probably because he was always left standing when they put him under; he doesn’t like to think about it.

If the air smells like coffee, then he needs to go find some. Immediately. Wiping a hand across his tired eyes, he heads for the kitchen, really hoping it’s a hot, fresh pot. And when he gets there, he sees Clint leaning back against the stove, one arm folded across his chest while the other arm is lifting a loosely held mug to his lips. “Mornin’,” Bucky greets, heading for the coffee maker, and he’s glad to see that Clint has already put a mug out for him, the big one that they both usually fight over.

Clint doesn’t say anything for a few seconds in response, and Bucky can just feel those blue eyes boring into him, like Clint’s waiting to catch shit, like he’s waiting for a lashing, whether it be verbal or physical. And Bucky knows why, but he’s not going to bring that up because that’s the past, it’s not important now. But when Bucky settles against the counter opposite to Clint and they’re staring at each other over the top of their mugs, that’s when Clint speaks up.

“I put the first aid kit out. Behind you,” he says quietly. After Bucky checks over his shoulder to see it, Clint continues, “I saw your little-“ And he makes a little gesture to point at his chest, and Bucky looks down to see a scab where the arrow’s tip had wounded him last night. Clint continues, “Wasn’t sure if you’d need that patched up or not. Looks like you don’t need it.”

Bucky shrugs half-heartedly. By his standards, it’s already healed.

“But there’s painkillers in there.” Clint gestures with a jut of his chin. “For your head.” He shifts a little, his weight fully on the stove as he crosses his legs at the ankle while standing there. “I know you get fucked up when you sleep like that.”

Now that’s something he needs. Better to get rid of the dull throb before it goes to full-blown hurricane in his head. For some reason, the serum’s healing factor doesn’t work on shit like migraines. “Thanks,” Bucky mumbles as he turns around to put down his mug and grab the first aid kit, popping it open and finding what he needs.

Again, Clint’s quiet. He watches Bucky pop open the pill bottle and throw a couple back before leaning against the counter again.

For a minute, it seems like they’re not gonna talk about it. There’s coffee. It’s morning. Everything always looks better in the daylight.

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

An angry storm rolls through his chest. He hates it when Clint apologizes because they both know it’s not their fault, it’s no one’s fault, it’s a mess in their heads, and all they can do is work through it together, carefully, safely. “S’not your fault,” he reaffirms, resituating himself comfortably with his coffee in hand.

Clint won’t swallow that answer, apparently. “Yeah it is. It’s my fault.” He uncurls a finger from around his coffee mug and points at the hole in Bucky’s chest. “I did that to you. I could’ve put an arrow in your chest, Buck.” And his face is tired. Sad. “I could’ve come out of that and found you dead, and then what?” And Bucky notices now that his husband’s hands are shaking as Clint continues, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you.”

They rehash this every time this happens, but Clint always takes it harder. Bucky could literally snap Clint’s neck, but he hasn’t. At this point, he’s pretty sure it’s because their problems are ruled by separate things: Bucky’s memories turn him uncontrollably violent whereas Clint’s fear of loss of control turns him wary of reality. Clint takes it harder every time because he knows it’s all just the paranoia in his head; Bucky has, at this point, written it off that he can’t control it and knows that it’s not his fault.

But Clint takes it more personally.

So Bucky has to talk him down just like he does every other time. “You’re afraid, Clint. Gotta stop feelin’ bad about the shit in your head. Not gonna go away, not gonna change.” He takes a sip of his coffee, but now he’s not looking at Clint. “Gotta make peace with your shit.”

Maybe Bucky’s a little bit of a hypocrite, but at least he knows where he’s going. He feels bad whenever he hurts Clint, but he knows he can’t stop himself. Clint just needs to get on that same page.

“I won’t stop hurting you though.”

“No, but you don’t gotta lay around and feel guilty about it either.”

Clint’s quiet.

“Babe, I know how to talk you down. I know how to handle you jus’ like you know how to handle me.” His eyes are on Clint, watching him stand uncomfortably, shifting as his tries to readjust. “This isn’t new anymore. We’re married, remember?”

Clint’s fingers suddenly start spinning the wedding ring on his finger, and maybe sometimes he does forget; for now, Bucky’ll blame it on last night. “Yeah.” His breathing stays even, and his gaze shifts from Bucky to the ring. “It’s just hard.” He lifts the mug up so it hides his lips. “I don’t like hurting you.”

“And I don’t like seein’ you scared outta your mind.” His stomach doesn’t like it when he says that out loud. But he knows that Clint’s biggest pitfall is fear. But it’s also his greatest strength. “You regularly fight giant robots with pointy sticks and don’t have a problem, but as soon as someone gets in your head, you freeze up.”

Clint’s silent, and he watches his coffee. After a moment, he says, maybe a little defensively, “You’re not my therapist.”

“We can’t afford a therapist, I’m about as much as you’re gonna get at this point.” They could afford a therapist, but they like that excuse better than saying that they don’t trust anyone else with their dirty little secrets. “I’m just sayin’ what you need to hear, babe.”

Again, Clint doesn’t say anything. Any other day, Bucky would want him to shut his stupid face and just enjoy the silence, but today, he needs Clint to talk to him, to open up and accept his help. That’s why Sam set them up to talk to each other in the first place when they both refused therapy; whether Sam predicted the resulting relationship is an entirely different matter.

“What I’m tryin’ to get at is that you can’t lay around and mope about what you have no control over.” Bucky’s just tired, and that headache is still lingering in the back of his head, and he’s not going to rant at Clint, not now, he doesn’t have the energy for it. As badly as he wants Clint to be okay, he knows it won’t be solved in a day and that it won’t fix everything, but he wants to at least try and get Clint to start looking at his problems differently.

His lips part, but it’s just for a sip of coffee. But after that: “What if I lay around in bed with you and watch movies all day instead?” asks Clint slowly, eyes still wearing some hesitation.

“You’re not allowed to apologize again all day.” Bucky’s gotta set some standards, he’s gotta get Clint on the right track here. “And if you look at this again, I’m puttin’ a shirt on.” He taps at the scab that’s right over his heart.

There he goes, there’s a smirk. It’s weak and small, but it’s there, and that’s enough for Bucky. “But what if I’m just basking in your sexiness?”

Bucky snorts a laugh because he knows Clint is deflecting, but at least he’s not moping so much. “You’re the worst,” he says as he puts down his coffee and pushes off the counter, crossing the kitchen to wrap his arms around Clint and hold him tenderly.

Clint, on the other hand, opts to still hold his coffee, and just wraps his free arm around Bucky’s neck, pulling him in close.

“I love you,” breathes Bucky, pressing a kiss into Clint’s hair, and he hears his own voice waver because he knows what he’s trying to say even if not all the words are there. He’s scared for Clint. He worries too much. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he hurt Clint some night. Bucky embraces his husband tighter. “I love you so much.”

Clint’s response is a breath of a laugh. “I love you too.” And those words say all of the same things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all. Had fun writing this. It's weird that the idea started with "All-American cuddling" and then spiraled into this, but I'm pleased with the result.
> 
> Again, hit me up on tumblr at my url: skylarkevanson
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed!


End file.
